Monday, March 30, 2020

Not to want
or to have more
but be simply floating
love of coals and soft flames
encamped toward abysses
with the shine of battered velvet
coming out of a rock broken
grass quilt
and a peppered ooze
sweet copper hindquarters parked
on a ramp of sand
suited to the cliff's caught rags

at what hour
through what hotly vacant
watching curve
should I drink the sugar
of your eternal move

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